


Hunger

by dvske



Series: Implicit [3]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where he neglects to make the time, she saves him the trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

Evenings are when he feels it most distinctly: A punctuated gnawing of the gut, the sharp pangs that surface without fail hours after he's finished his second coffee of the day. A latte, iced— _always_ iced—but now the surviving cluster of cubes has melted, diluting what little coffee is left.

Without fail, he pauses in his typing long enough to pick up the mixture, swirl it, sip. The pitiful sound of a straw, drained. He sucks his teeth in mild annoyance. It's no substitute for dinner. Barely gets him through lunch, suffices as breakfast. And with fumes running low, he knows he should quit while he's ahead and get some semblance of rest before picking back up tomorrow.

But.

The "but" is what has him absently rummaging through his desk drawers with one hand, still typing with the other. Searching for something to curb the beast for the time being, just one more hour. Chips or a candy bar, crackers or—

Oh.

A lunch bag of sorts, a neat little insulated rectangle trimmed white with red sash. And pinned to the top in telltale handwriting, a note.

_Add hot water. And again, you're welcome. --S_

He plucks it out of the drawer with a slight huff through his nose, unzips it to reveal ice packs cuddling a container of dried noodles, vegetables, seasame seeds. A smaller container filled with some crytalline paste, a honeyed shade of red. A fork and spoon, gleaming in the hazy glow of his computer monitor. A lovingly crafted meal tucked away in the one place he'd best find it. When she slipped it there, he's not sure. He's never sure, often forgets to be honest, but he can't fight the small smile that softens his features when he leaves his seat to go turn on the kettle.

Once again, he owes her a thank you note.


End file.
